


give to me your leather, take from me my lace

by elizaham8957



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And all that jazz, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Family, Fluff, Kinda, Pregnancy, Romance, jon has endless heart eyes basically, like... mostly, marriage proposals, s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos do have a point with their proposition,” Missandei says, her words careful. “The Northern lords would most likely be much more amicable towards you if their king were to help rule the Seven Kingdoms after the Great War.”Dany sighs, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger. “Yes, I imagine they would.” Memories of their nights on her ship come flooding back—  Jon's solid, strong arms around her at night, her body tucked into his, and the way that, for the first time in her life, she had truly considered giving it all up. Forfeiting the Iron Throne and all the damn wars to come, and sailing until they reached the end of the world, just so she could remain in Jon’s embrace for as long as they both lived.She had only voiced that desire to him once, when it was just the two of them and her dragons before the waterfalls, the harsh beauty of the North stretching for as far as the eye could see. She remembers the way Jon had looked at her, the lilting smile at her whispered wish to run away with him forever, and the feel of his lips upon hers afterwards, hot and desperate and full of love, and wishes she was always as brave as she had been in that moment.





	give to me your leather, take from me my lace

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello there, new fandom! (This is so weird, I've never written for anything but Teen Wolf before. Still not sure how I feel about this lol)
> 
> Anyways, I wrote this mostly for myself because I have been struck with SEVERE writer's block on my current wip for the past few months, and Thrones has become my new love over the past year or so. It was so refreshing to write something for Jon and Dany, who I love dearly, and I hope I did them justice! I wrote this before season 8 started, and then kinda updated it to somewhat line up with the premiere, so it's like... mostly canon compliant. I know from the teaser we got last week they wouldn't actually be in Winterfell as long as this suggests, but. Whatever. Creative license. I'm going with it. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this, and I would love to hear what you think, seeing as I've never written for these two before. I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter too if you wanna chat! (Or see the 12389023894 gifsets of Jon making heart eyes at Dany that I have reblogged in the past week.)

Dany feels as though they’ve been at this table for years.

She blinks as she stares down at the map of Westeros sprawling before them, her fingers pale where they clutch against the dark polished wood. She knows she should be listening, truly— this war coming for them is the most dangerous battle they will ever face, and they will need to think of any and every strategy to win it. But it is hard to focus when she feels at danger of collapsing any second, her stomach roiling as she looks at the wooden wolves and dragons decorating the map, the polished lions that lay to the south as well.

“We can’t leave our entire army defenseless from any attack that may come from the South,” Tyrion says, gesturing to the lions in King’s Landing. “Jaime has told us that Cersei plans to bring the Golden Company to Westeros to fight for her. If they reach us while we’re preoccupied with fighting the white walkers, we will be decimated.”

“We can’t afford to send off any men,” Jon rebuts, his head dipping forward as he leans against the table next to her. “The Night King’s army numbers over a hundred thousand soldiers, and it grows every day. We need every single soldier we have here when he attacks.”

“Obviously the Army of the Dead is the imminent concern,” Sansa agrees, meeting Jon’s eye. “But it is unwise to underestimate Cersei. The second we do is the second she will attack. And we cannot protect the North from the White Walkers if we have to deal with the Golden Company as well.”

“Lady Stark is right,” Dany agrees, all heads at the table turning towards her. Sansa meets her eye, smiling slightly.  “And while the Night King should be our priority, I do not want the rest of the country to suffer at Cersei’s hand while we fight against the dead.”

“If we are to send part of the army to defend the south, the problem then becomes the Northern lords,” Tyrion says. “They’ve just barely agreed to this alliance in the war against the Night King. They will not agree to it in the war against my sister.” Jon sighs, his shoulders sagging, and Dany cannot help but notice how weary he looks. Her stomach rolls again, and she blinks, trying to force down the feeling of nausea.

“Aye,” Jon agrees, glancing up at her Hand. “They won’t like that we’re sending people to fight against Cersei while the threat to the North is still at hand. They may have accepted we need your armies in this fight, your Grace,” Jon says, turning to her, “but the next war is not one they want any part of.”

“Well then, I believe the issue is truly convincing the Northern lords to support my claim to the throne,” Dany says, meeting Jon’s gaze. His eyes are soft and sincere, the look in them so very similar to the one he gave her when he first bent the knee, when he had awoken to find her at his bedside on the ship back from Eastwatch. Her expression softens at that look— she knows she has his support, from this day until the end. If only that was enough for the other lords of the North.  

“The Lords of the North have declared for House Stark, and House Stark backs you as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, my queen,” Jon tells her. “Formally, you have the support of the North. But in practice—” He shakes his head, looking down again. The downright hostile reception she was greeted with at Winterfell has faded some, after news of Last Hearth reached the Lords here, but they still do not accept her as Jon does, or respect her as their Queen.

“It hasn’t gone unappreciated that you’ve brought your armies and your dragons to fight for them,” Ser Davos adds. “They might be grateful for your aid, but that doesn’t mean they trust you. And that doesn’t mean they’ll march off to war against Cersei for you, either. The North—”

“The North is stubborn,” Sansa cuts in, and Davos nods in agreement. “It doesn’t matter that you intend to rule justly; they still are angry that Jon bent the knee to you. These people have suffered too much at the hands of southern rulers to trust one again so easily.”

“I understand the struggles they have faced,” Dany says. “I understand they are not easily forgettable.” Her stomach churns again, and she pauses, swallowing down the bile rising in her throat. “But if we are to build a better world— one free from the tyranny they have suffered for so long— we must do it together.”

“So how do we make the North bend to your will?” Tyrion asks, earning him a sharp look from Dany. She does not like the way he phrases his question, innocent as it probably was, and she can tell that Sansa and Jon do not either.

“They will not _bend to my will,”_ she says, an edge to her voice. “I have come here to save them, not conquer them, and I will not terrorize anyone into submission. I do not wish to rule solely with _fear._ Then I am no better than Cersei.”

“Of course,” Tyrion agrees. “Poor phrasing, I apologize. But the question still remains.”

“The Northerners need to come to respect you, to trust you,” Missandei adds, from her other side. “That is why everyone in your army fights for you. That is why Lord Jon bent the knee to you.”

“Yes, but that took months,” Dany says, and even though his head is bowed, she can see the smallest hint of a smile playing at Jon’s lips, almost imperceptible— but not to her. “We don’t have the time to wait for that. If we wish to be proactive against Cersei _and_ defeat the Night King, I need their full support _now.”_

The room falls silent, all the advisors gathered around the table stumped. Dany can feel her stomach clench again, and she wishes this newfound sickness would leave her be— they have enough problems to deal with; the last thing she needs is to fall ill on the dawn of the most important battle she has yet to fight.

“There is, of course,” Tyrion says, and just from the look on his face, Dany can tell where he is going, “the matter we had discussed before, my Queen.” Her teeth clench together, lips a harsh line, and she can feel dread flood her stomach, joining the nausea that refuses to let her be.

“Tyrion,” she mutters, a sharp edge to her voice as she watches Davos and Varys turn to look at her as well, their gazes too intense for her liking. Everyone else at the table looks puzzled, all eyes landing on her. It does nothing to settle her stomach, and her fingers grow white again as she clutches at the table’s edge.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks her Hand, brow furrowed, and Dany’s eyes close as the nausea grows worse. She has made it clear to Tyrion, she does _not_ want to discuss this issue, especially in front of all her advisors and councillors.

“The Northern lords are loyal to their own,” Davos cuts in, staring back at Dany as she tries to fight the nausea in her caused by something else entirely. “The alliance between the North and Queen Daenerys is not enough for them. In their eyes, it is temporary. For all they know the Queen could turn on them after the war against the dead is won. They need reassurance that this alliance is to last. That she truly supports the North, from this day, until the end of her days.”

“Davos,” Jon says, his voice harsh and full of warning. It’s clear he knows what their Hands are talking about, and Dany almost wants to cry with relief that he is trying to put a stop to them. Especially when, she knows, she has no right for his mercy on this subject.

Tyrion ignores Jon’s warning and the dangerous look in Dany’s eyes, continuing on for Davos. “Marriage is the most effective way to seal a permanent alliance. If, after the war, one of their own were to help rule—”

“That is _enough,_ Tyrion,” Dany snaps, a wave of nausea sweeping over her and forcing her to close her eyes again, her grip on the edge of the table so tight it is painful. Her eyes open again, almost blearily, and meet those of her Hand. “We are not discussing this now.”

Silence follows as Dany tries to regain control of her traitorous body, her advisors and allies staring down at the map spread before them. She closes her eyes again, trying to swallow down the nausea stirring in her belly. Mostly, though, she cannot bear to look at Jon, to see the self doubt from her sharp words that undoubtedly lingers in his gaze.

“Are you alright, my Queen?” Missandei says next to her, voice low as she addresses her. Dany shakes her head, forcing her clutch of the table to relax, though she still feels as though she might retch the entire meager contents of her stomach all over the table at any moment.

“I am fine,” she insists, tilting her chin up, determined to retain her queenly command. She does trust most of the people in this room— even Lady Sansa and she have built a tentative friendship, a shared understanding between them from similar horrific pasts, but Dany still refuses to show weakness among these people. She needs to be their leader now, and she cannot afford compromising. The stakes of the imminent battle are too grave.

“You’re not, your grace,” Jon says on her other side, his voice low, though she does not miss the note of concern in his tone. She dares to glance over to him, relief coursing through her when she sees no hint of sadness at her immediate dismissal of what Tyrion and Davos had been trying to discuss, just care in those lovely eyes of his. His hand moves closer to hers on the table, mere inches apart— even though most of the people in this room know the nature of their relationship, he still does not dare touch her in public so intimately, no matter how greatly she wants to feel his large, rough hand cover hers.

“I am,” she insists, ever stubborn. He just shakes his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers, and everything he is not permitted to say before their advisors is clear to her in those eyes she loves so dearly.

“No, you’re not,” he rebuts. She raises an eyebrow at him in challenge, fighting to maintain her expression as another wave of nausea crashes over her, her eyelids fluttering ever so slightly.

“It’s alright, Daenerys,” he says, voice still quiet. She does not miss the shifting glance of Varys, the watchful gaze of Sansa at the familiarity with which Jon uses her name. “Go rest,” he continues, his eyes imploring. “If we’re going to win this fight, we need everyone at their full strength. Especially you.”

The sincerity of his words, the amount of care hidden in them, is what finally makes her give in. “Alright,” she agrees, and Missandei moves to her side, threading her arm though Dany’s.

“Come, my Queen,” she says, smiling at her friend. “With rest, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” Dany lowers her head in acceptance, nodding slightly at Missandei. She does not miss the grateful look that Jon gives Missandei as her dearest friend leads her from the council room.

“Would you like for me to draw you a bath, your grace?” Missandei inquires as they walk through the dark corridors of Winterfell, back towards her chambers.

“Yes, please,” Dany agrees, the thought of a warm bath settling her stomach some. “And make it as hot as you possibly can.” She shares a look with the other woman, rolling her eyes slightly. “It’s bloody _freezing_ here.”

Missandei smiles, biting back a laugh, Dany can tell. “You complain of the cold, yet you speak like a northerner,” her friend notes. Dany huffs, though she can’t fight the smile off of her face, one of Jon’s choice curse words having just slipped out without thought.  

“Yes, well,” she says, as Missandei pushes the door to her chambers open. “I wonder whose fault _that_ is.”

The bath that Missandei has drawn for her is deliciously hot, like the water was pumped directly from the hot springs underneath the keep. Her friend returns just as Dany is finishing unraveling the intricate braids her hair has been in, a plate of food in her hand. The servants who drew the bath leave the two women with a final curtsey, disappearing back into the stony halls of Winterfell.

“I brought you some biscuits, and cheese,” Missandei says, offering Dany the plate. “I noticed you didn’t touch most of your supper, and you still need to eat, my Queen.” Dany examines the offering, and despite the nausea that has overcome it, her stomach does grumble a little at the thought of food. “The cook says these should be plain enough for you to keep them down without upsetting your stomach again,” Missandei says.

“Thank you, my friend,” Dany says, nibbling at one of the biscuits. It is plain, but it’s still good, and she finishes it off before letting Missandei help her into the bath, her stomach settled some.

Her eyes slide closed as Missandei sets to helping her with washing her hair, the moonbeam locks floating on the surface of the water, steam curling off the bath and rising into the air. While the North is dreadfully cold, Winterfell itself offers at least some partial solace from the freezing temperatures, with fires burning constantly in all the hearths. Still, it doesn’t stop her from burying under all the furs in her bed and curling into Jon’s side at night to keep warm.

“Do you feel better now?” Missandei asks as she finishes with Dany’s hair, letting the long tresses flow loosely in the hot water. Dany hums, eyes sliding closed.

“Yes, I do,” she says, turning so she may look at her friend. “Thank you, Missandei. This has helped very much.” She shakes her head, looking down at her feet in the bath, almost hidden in the water clouded from the temperature. “I haven’t felt completely well since we arrived here, but tonight, with everything to discuss, and Tyrion and Davos’s—” she trails off, but Missandei looks at her understandingly.

“You have nothing to explain, my queen,” she assures her. “The North is a very different place than what you are used to. What _all_ of us are used to. It takes its toll on all of us.” She pauses, and Dany looks over, sensing that her friend is not yet done speaking. Missandei’s gaze is hesitant as she meets Dany’s eyes. “May I ask you a question, your grace?”

“Of course,” Dany responds. “You needn’t ask permission.” Her friend gives her a warm smile, kneeling back next to the tub.

“I— after our journey to White Harbor, and afterwards on the way to Winterfell— I thought you had become... quite _fond_ of the King in the North,” Missandei says, and Dany almost snorts with laughter at the _very_ polite way her friend manages to say she and Jon spent almost every night of that month-long trip fucking each other senseless.

“Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos do have a point with their proposition,” Missandei says, her words careful. “The Northern lords would most likely be much more amicable towards you if their king were to help rule the Seven Kingdoms after the Great War.”

Dany sighs, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger, letting the end of it trail through the water. “Yes, I imagine they would.”  

“I had thought… he does _please_ you, does he not, your grace?” Missandei asks, and at that Dany _does_ laugh.

“Yes, he is entirely too talented in that aspect,” Dany says, sharing a coy smile with her friend. Memories of their nights on her ship come flooding back, spending all of her time tangled up in Jon— the way his lips had mapped every inch of her body, that talented mouth of his and the way he felt inside her making her wish that they never had to leave her chambers. His solid, strong arms around her at night, her body tucked into his, and the way that, for the first time in her life, she had truly considered giving it all up. Forfeiting the Iron Throne and all the damn wars to come, and sailing until they reached the end of the world, just so she could remain in Jon’s embrace for as long as they both lived.

She had only voiced that desire to him once, when it was just the two of them and her dragons before the waterfalls, the harsh beauty of the North stretching for as far as the eye could see. She remembers the way Jon had looked at her, the lilting smile at her whispered wish to run away with him forever, and the feel of his lips upon hers afterwards, hot and desperate and full of love, and wishes she was always as brave as she had been in that moment.

“I can see you care for him,” Missandei says, her voice soft. When Dany meets her friend’s eyes, she can see the shine in them, the sincerity of her words. “If you were opposed to entering another purely political marriage, I don’t think anyone would blame you. But it looks to me as if he makes you very happy. So I thought Tyrion’s suggestion would not be an unwelcome one for you.”

Dany swallows, her eyes casting down again towards the soapy water. A part of her wants to run, to shut herself away and push all these emotions into a dark corner of herself where no one can find them. She has had to be so strong all her life, the people closest to her betraying her and her trust so often that she does not share anything easily. But, she reasons… Missandei is her friend, and she loves the other woman dearly. And those barriers of ice, as high as the Wall itself, she has built inside herself so that others cannot let her down— they have started to melt and thaw a little. As much as she wants to shut her friend out, stew over her confused emotions herself, there is also a small part of her that wants to let Missandei in. Let the other woman help her to sort out what she is feeling.

She probably has Jon Snow to thank for that, she figures. For she figures her rough Northerner is the very reason those walls of ice inside herself have begun to thaw so.

“He does,” Dany relents, chipping away at those walls a little all by herself. “He makes me tremendously happy.” Every member of her council has made their assumptions, as she and Jon were not entirely… _discreet_ in their affections for each other, once aboard her ship, but it’s the first time she’s said the words out loud, given some sort of voice to her feelings to anyone other than the man in question. “And Tyrion and Davos’s clever plan is not entirely unwelcome.”

“Does the King in the North not feel the same about this plan?” Missandei asks gently, and Dany’s head snaps to her friend, eyes widening at the thought.

“No,” she answers undoubtedly. Her eyes fall downwards again, because Jon has made himself very clear where he stands on this subject— both before and after the discovery of his true heritage. Dany blinks, thinking back to that day, the two of them wrapped around each other by the waterfall, the beautiful Northern landscape, his _home,_ sprawling around them, his eyes so soft as he’d spoken. She thought, in that moment, her heart might burst right from her chest, it was so full of love _._ She glances back to Missandei, and she wonders if her friend can see the uncertainty she knows is in her eyes.

“He asked me to marry him soon after we reached Winterfell.”

Missandei’s brows raise, her eyes widening, and she leans in closer to the edge of the tub. There are no formalities between them now, nothing of an advisor and a queen— in this moment, Missandei is just her dearest friend, someone she trusts completely with herself, and Dany is beyond grateful.

“And what did you tell him?” she inquires. Dany sighs, pushing her still-wet hair back from her face, over her shoulder.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” she admits, eyes cast downward. “I told him I had to think on it.”

“And?” Missandei presses on, and Dany can hear the burning curiosity in her friend’s voice, the question unsaid that she is asking.

“And he just held me, and told me to take as much time as I needed,” she admits as she looks up, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “He is too good to me,” she adds, shaking her head slightly. “I’m not sure I deserve him.”

“No, my queen,” Missandei says, her voice full of sincerity. She reaches over to grasp Dany’s hand in hers, squeezing it. “He is all the goodness you deserve from someone.”

Dany smiles gratefully at that, returning her friend’s squeeze of the hand.

“You love him, don’t you?” Missandei asks, and Dany nods reflexively, before she can even consider her actions. Because she _does._ She’s never felt anything like what she feels for Jon— Drogo had been her sun and stars once, but as she looks back now, she realizes the fragility of that love, the desperate nature of it. Loving Drogo had been essential to her survival. Any happiness she did feel does not erase the terror that began her marriage. And Daario… she had enjoyed his company, his ability to treat her like she was just a person. But Jon is something entirely different. Jon makes her feel special in a way none of her previous lovers ever had. Jon respects her and admires her and trusts her. Jon makes her want to survive these awful wars to come more than anything, just so she may spend more precious days by his side.

Jon is the home she never had, that she has searched for all her life. She has finally found a place where she _belongs,_ with this noble, stubborn Northerner who is so dear to her that it scares her.

Dany draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, curling in on herself in the hot water. “I do,” she tells the other woman. “I love him more than anything, Missandei. In a way I once thought was impossible for me to care for anyone. So much it’s almost frightening.”

Her friend smiles at her, warm and comforting. “And he loves you in the same way. Even a blind man could see it in his face, in the way he looks at you.” Missandei rests one hand on Dany’s shoulder, her slender fingers rubbing up and down soothingly. “So why have you not told him yes?”

Dany looks down again, tracing her finger through the water droplets gathered on her knee. _Fear,_ she knows, is the reason. They have so much to fear in the days to come. And it is fear of the future that keeps her from doing the one thing she truly wants, and telling him she will be his.

“I can’t give him children,” Dany admits, ashamed at how small her voice sounds. “He’s the true heir to the Iron Throne, and I will never be able to give him heirs. If he marries me, he’ll never have a child of his own.”

Missandei pauses, as if considering her words. “And he has said he wants children of his own?” she asks. Dany shakes her head, eyes still downcast.

“He assures me he does not care.”

“But you don’t believe him,” Missandei clarifies.

Dany laughs humorlessly. “I believe that he believes he does not care.” She looks up to her friend, and Missandei’s gaze is so soft and sympathetic that Dany can only imagine how she must look in the woman’s eyes— small and pathetic and hopeless, curled up in a tub lamenting her own body’s failures while the Night King and his army march for them.

“But one day, once all of this is over,” Dany begins, voice still small, “when there is no chaos and strife to distract us, he will see his siblings and his friends with their own children, and he will want them for himself. And he won’t tell me, because he will know it is something I cannot give him, but he will want it all the same.” She pauses, blinking back the hot tears behind her eyes, threatening to spill over. “And then he will resent me.” Dany looks up to her dearest friend, the sorrow in the other woman’s eyes so palpable, and exhales shakily before casting her eyes downwards again. “He may not mean to, but he will. And I could not live in a world where Jon hates me.”

“Daenerys,” Missandei says, taking her hand again, prying her fingers from the deathly grip they have on her own knees. She cannot bring herself to meet her friend’s eyes, but she can imagine how they must look just from the tone of her voice.

“I have learned many things serving you these years,” Missandei tells her, folding both hands over Dany’s on the edge of the tub. “But the most important one is that we do not choose who we love. It just happens, and there is precious little we can say or do to change that.” Dany looks up at that, meeting her friend’s eyes, a beautiful chocolate color in the dying candlelight.

“And the King in the North— he loves you. And you love him. Perhaps,” she says, voice soft, “that is enough for him, truly. Perhaps he is not mistaken. Perhaps _you_ are all he needs.”

Dany blinks at that, the tears threatening to fall again, but for an entirely different reason. She’s not sure just _her_ has ever been enough for someone before. She has collected titles and trauma and battle scars on her quest for the Iron Throne, and every name she adds is another thing her people need her to be. Drogo needed her to be a wife, to bear him sons. Her khalasar needed her to be their leader, their khaleesi. The people of Slaver’s Bay needed her to be their liberator— the breaker of chains. And now the people of Westeros need her to be her savior, the princess who was promised, the one to bring the dawn and an end to the despair they have known all their lives.

She thinks of the way Jon looks at her when they are alone, the tenderness in his lovely eyes, the velvet sound of his voice and slight lilt of his smile when he calls her _Dany._ Not khaleesi, not the breaker of chains, not the mother of dragons. Just Dany.

Maybe, that is enough for him. Maybe he truly needs no more than her. She knows the opposite is true— really, in this world, all she wants and all she needs is Jon.

“The Army of the Dead is coming for all of us, and Cersei after them,” Missandei says, voice becoming more serious. “We do not know how much time we might have left.” She stands, and Dany follows her lead, the water having grown colder in the past minutes. Her friend returns with a bathing sheet for her, as well as her robe. She smiles as she helps Dany wrap in it, her hands gently resting on her friend’s shoulders once Dany is clothed. “Don’t deny yourself true happiness based on the possibilities of what-ifs.”

“Thank you, my friend,” she whispers to Missandei, smiling slightly. She knows Missandei’s words are correct, the truth of them squeezing at her heart, giving her hope again. She will think on it tonight, and then tomorrow, she will talk to Jon.

Missandei leads her to the vanity, pressing another biscuit into her hand as she sets to brushing out Dany’s hair and braiding it back for the night. She is just tying off the braid when there is a soft knock at the door, too gentle and undemanding to be anyone other than the King in the North. Missandei goes to open it, and sure enough, there is her king, his expression almost meek as her friend pulls it open wider, allowing him to step into Dany’s chambers.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head as he steps awkwardly over the threshold. Everyone that sailed with them would have to be blind and deaf to not know what has transpired between them, but somehow it seems entirely different, Missandei bearing witness, even with all the two women have discussed in the time since Dany took her leave from the war council.

“Missandei,” Jon returns, the slight hint of a polite smile tugging at his lips. He stands in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him, his heavy furs and armor from earlier gone, Longclaw noticeably absent from his hip. None of them say anything for a moment, but then Jon’s eyes meet hers, and she can see in them the amount of care and love he has for her. It still astounds her a little bit, like she expects to wake up from a far-too-good dream at any moment. The ardent love that shines in his eyes every time he so much as glances her way cannot possibly be real.

“Do you need anything else, my queen?” Missandei asks, and Dany’s eyes flit back to her friend.

“No,” she tells the woman with a small smile. “You should retire as well. Thank you again, my friend, for everything.”

“Of course,” Missandei says, with another courteous bow of her head to the both of them, and then she is sliding the door closed behind her, leaving Dany alone with Jon.

The second the door closes he walks over to her, kneeling down to the ground so that their eyes are level, taking one of her hands in his.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks her, concern evident in his voice, and she nods, smiling smally at him.

“Yes, I am,” she assures him, and he relaxes a little, though his thumb does not stop running up and down the length of her hand. “Did I miss anything after I left?”

“Nothing important,” Jon assures her with a little shake of his head. “Tyrion tried to come up with more clever plans. I assured him none of them will work against the stubborn Northern Lords.”

“I’m sure we will continue the battle tomorrow,” Dany says, and Jon almost chuckles, nodding his head in agreement. His eyes skate from her face to the table beside her, the brush and plate half full with biscuits decorating the surface.

“I remember those,” Jon says, glancing at the plate with a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “Old Nan used to make those biscuits for us whenever someone was in bed ill. They were bland, but they always seemed to make me feel better.” He smiles at her again, one hand rising to smooth a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m glad they’ve done the same for you.”

“They have,” she says, nodding slightly. Her heart squeezes at his story, regardless of how brief, because it strikes her again how this is his _home._ He grew up in these rooms, ran and played in these halls and on these grounds, and now, he’s sharing it with her. He’s let her into his home like it’s as easy as breathing for him, and for the first time, she does not feel like an outsider in the unwelcoming North.

It makes her love him even more, impossible though it seems.

“I’m rather tired,” she tells him, and he nods, squeezing her hand.

“Aye,” he agrees, standing, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get some rest, shall we?”

Dany’s still just wrapped in her robe, so she walks to her trunks, pulling a sleeping shift from the neatly stacked piles of clothing within. She can feel Jon watch her as she sheds the robe, pulling the shift over her head and tugging her braid free. His hands are on her as soon as she’s clothed, one framing each hip, warm and heavy even through the thick material essential in this never ending cold. His head arches down so his lips can brush against the crook of her neck, skin exposed by the scooped neckline of the shift. He’s gotten rid of his leathers now too, the heat of his body radiating through the thin tunic he wears.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he tells her, voice barely more than a whisper, but it still sends a thrill through her body.

“Mmm,” she hums, arching back into his touch. “Even now, when I’m sick and pale and in danger of vomiting at any second?”

He smiles into her warm skin, teeth scraping her collarbone gently. “Especially now.” He straightens up then, though his hands remain on her waist. “Come, my queen,” he says. “You need to sleep.”

She cannot argue with that, as she feels the drowsiness beginning to set in, so she follows Jon instead to her bed, letting him pull down the furs and tuck her in. His arms wrap around her immediately after he climbs in, tugging the furs up to cocoon them both in each others’ warmth. Jon leans down to press a kiss to her crown, and she angles her head to meet his eye, reaching up so that she may kiss him on his lips as well, long and languid and sweet.

“Good night, love,” he whispers into her moonbeam hair, and her eyes slide closed as she hums contently, pressing her head into the crook below his chin where she has learned it fits perfectly. Jon’s arms tighten around her, pulling her into his chest as his legs tangle with hers, and Dany’s heart thumps with how full it feels.

She is being a fool, denying herself this. Denying them both the comfort and love of each other, when they do not know how much time they have left. Every single thing about this future is uncertain— but there is one thing Dany is positive of, and it is that she belongs in Jon’s arms for as long as time will permit her to stay there.

Tomorrow, she will find Missandei, and see if one of her old dresses from Meereen might be altered into something suitable to be married in. And she will have to talk to Lady Sansa as well about the Northern traditions— for she wants to marry Jon under the eyes of his gods, in a way that honors the North and this wonderful man whom she loves.

Dany is done being afraid. She knows she belongs with Jon for the rest of her days— and for now, that is all that really matters.

***

When she awakens in the morning, the bed is empty next to her, the chill of the air setting in quickly without Jon’s body heat to ward off the cold. She blinks, sleepily remembering his whispered words of goodbye as the sun broke the horizon, his lips warm as he pressed them to her temple. Dany curls in on herself, wishing that she could wake up in his arms as she so often falls asleep in them. _Once you are married, you can,_ she remembers, a jolt of excitement coursing through her at the very thought, making her feel more like a young blushing maid than a queen. She sits up, pulling the furs around herself to ward off the chill. Today, she will tell Jon she has decided, and that if he will still take her, she will be his for the rest of her days.

A gentle knock sounds at the door, and Missandei enters at Dany’s word, already dressed for the day. “I hope you are feeling better, your grace,” Missandei offers, and Dany smiles at her friend, standing and wrapping her arms around herself to keep somewhat warm with the absence of the furs. Her stomach seems to have settled a little from the previous evening, but the slight queasiness still lingers, threatening to overtake her once again without a moment’s notice.

“A bit,” Dany tells her. “I should be better off during these endless war council meetings today. I hope, anyway.”

“That is good to hear, as Lord Tyrion would like to continue the discussion of the southern threat with you today,” Missandei informs her, turning to Dany’s trunk. She opens it, rifling through the warmer winter gowns that she has. “And Lord Jon and Lady Sansa say we must meet with all of the Northern lords over supper, to inform them of whatever decision we have made. The King in the North claims they are growing impatient.” Dany huffs at that, and Missandei smirks at her knowingly when she turns, one of Dany’s new dresses in hand.

“I thought perhaps this one today,” Missandei says, and Dany nods in agreement. Her friend lays the dress out, and Dany sits at her vanity so that Missandei may tend to her hair.

“Missandei,” Dany starts, as the other woman’s skilled fingers work out the braid in her hair from the night before. Missandei does not say anything, but looks up to meet Dany’s gaze in the mirror.

“I thought about what you said last night,” she tells her friend, and Missandei’s eyebrows raise. “And I need your help.”

“Of course, my queen,” Missandei says. “Whatever you need, you can ask of me.”

Dany bites her lip, still taken aback at the fluttery feeling that floods her body at the thought of marrying Jon. “Do you think you could alter one of my dresses from Essos, so that it is something suitable to be married in?” She watches her dear friend’s smile grow wide in the mirror, her eyes shining with joy.

“Certainly, your grace,” she says, brushing the tangles from Dany’s long locks. “I would be honored.”

Dany smiles gratefully in return, eyes still locked on her friend’s in the mirror. “And I would like to meet with Lady Sansa as well,” she says, and Missandei’s brow furrows in curiosity. “I am not sure of the Northern traditions when it comes to weddings, and I want to make sure I am honoring them.”

“Of course,” Missandei answers, that gentle smile playing at her lips. “I will see if she has some time this afternoon where we may speak.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Dany says. Missandei just nods smally, her eyes still alight with joy.

“It is my honor, my queen,” she says. “And I am very happy for you.”

Dany can feel the tears gather behind her eyes at her friend’s words, and she is not sure when she became so emotional— she is supposed to be a queen, after all, regal and responsible and always poised. But she has gone so long believing she will never find happiness in someone like she finds in Jon, so maybe… maybe her tears are justified.

“If you wouldn’t mind, don’t say anything to Jon yet,” Dany tells her friend as she sheds her night shift, Missandei helping her into the gown. “I haven’t told him yet. I will tonight, after all of these meetings are done with.”

“Of course,” Missandei says, fingers working deftly at the laces in the back. “I will make sure Lady Sansa knows as well that she should not inform her brother until after you have spoken with him.” Dany inhales sharply as Missandei tugs at the laces, all the air leaving her lungs.

“Has this gown always been so tight?” Dany gripes, one hand resting on her abdomen. She can feel the tension in the heavy fabric, pulled taut over her body.

“I am not sure, your grace,” Missandei says contemplatively. “But it is proving rather difficult to close.” She gives another sharp tug at the laces, and suddenly Dany’s stomach is churning in protest, flopping back and forth like a sail in the wind. Without thinking, she pushes Missandei’s hands away, bolting to the basin in the corner of the room and retching into it just as she reaches it. She empties the entire meager contents of her stomach into the basin, hands shaking as she clutches at the edge of it, her face covered in a sheen of sweat.

Missandei is beside her in a matter of seconds, pulling her loose hair back over her shoulder and out of the way before handing her a cloth and a goblet filled with water. She gratefully accepts both, rinsing her mouth with the water and wiping her brow with the cloth.

“It appears I am not feeling better after all,” Dany jokes demurely, meeting her friend’s eye meekly. Missandei has no hint of judgement in her gaze, though, just concern for her.

“What do you think could be causing it, your grace?” Missandei asks, one hand still resting on Dany’s shoulder in comfort. “Could the food be making you ill? It is very different than what you were used to in Essos, and even on Dragonstone.”

“I’ve barely eaten anything,” Dany answers, shaking her head. “And even then, I don’t think it would be the food. When I was with the Dothraki I ate _horse_ meat for months, and the only time I was ever _nearly_ this sick was when…” she trails off suddenly, mind racing, because the mere suggestion that the end of her sentence proposes should be impossible.

“Was when, my queen?” Missandei asks, but Dany is already moving away from the basin, back towards the mirror hanging above the vanity. Almost in a haze, she pulls the laces of her dress loose, the fabric going slack as she steps out of the gown, before she is standing naked in front of the mirror. Missandei appears next to her, Dany can see, but her eyes are fixed on her own reflection, the almost imperceptible swell of her stomach as she turns to face sideways.

“When I was carrying Rhaego,” she whispers, unable to urge her voice any higher. Missandei’s eyes go wide, and she steps closer to her friend.

“It cannot be,” Dany says to Missandei, her voice still hushed. _“I_ cannot be. I— I cannot have children.”

“When did you last have your moonblood?” Missandei asks, ignoring her statement. Dany hesitates, trying to think.

“Before we sailed for White Harbor,” she realizes. “Before Jon and I…” Her hand drifts to her stomach, resting over the barest bump there. It looks almost as if she’s eaten too big a meal very recently, not as if she’s carrying a child, but suddenly, as impossible as it seems, she can feel the truth in her bones. And she cannot stop the flood of images in her mind that she tried so hard to chase away on that ship, thinking they would never come true: a little boy with Jon’s messy raven curls, or a tiny girl with locks of silver and her father’s beautiful eyes. A babe of her own cradled at her breast, with Jon’s arms around both of them as he holds them close. Little legs toddling down the beaches of Dragonstone, Jon’s calloused hands catching their child before they can fall in the sand.  A _family_ with this man she loves so much, more than she has ever loved anything.

Her own eyes flood with tears as she looks towards Missandei, her fingers clutching at her stomach, resting over this little life growing inside her. Her friend’s gaze is one of miraculous surprise as well, her eyes shining with happiness.

“I shouldn’t— this should be impossible,” Dany tells her friend, her voice still quiet and awestruck. Missandei just smiles, taking her hand.

“Well, my queen,” she says, her expression so warm, so happy. “As Jon Snow said himself— you have been known to make _many_ impossible things happen.”

***

Miraculously, Dany makes it through the rest of the day without vomiting again, or bursting into tears. When she walks into the hall to break her fast with the others, dressed in a gown more forgiving in the waist than the original one Missandei had selected, she does almost cry at the tender look Jon gives her, the others around them oblivious. She fights back the tears threatening to fall, though, as she takes her place next to Jon, and she cannot resist but take his hand in her own under the table, invisible to prying eyes and judgements.

“Are you alright, love?” he whispers to her, quiet enough that only she hears, his lovely eyes full of concern. “Are you feeling better?”

She nods, fighting to maintain her composure. She thinks her heart might just burst, looking at him.

“Yes,” she assures him, and he relaxes a bit. “I am feeling tremendously better.”

The war council meetings pass in a hazy blur, and she can only remember half of what they decide on, Missandei listening dutifully by her side. Try as she might to focus, her mind is caught up on the thought of the man next to her, the soft shine that will be in his eyes when they promise themselves to each other, the look of wonder that will grace his face when they both look down at their babe cradled in his arms. It is almost easy to forget there is a war coming, when it seems that everything Dany has ever wanted in life is suddenly right before her.

She and Missandei meet with Sansa in the afternoon, and she is relieved at the look of joy on the other woman’s face when Dany tells her she intends to wed her brother. Dany is sure when they tell Arya, she will be overjoyed— Jon’s younger sister and she have gotten on famously from the start, but Lady Sansa had been skeptical and downright cold to her when she arrived in the North, understandably. In the past few weeks, they have built a hesitant friendship, come to understand each other better through their similarly horrific pasts, and Dany thinks they have made progress in accepting the necessity of working together. But still, she cannot help the warmth that spreads through her chest at the look on Sansa’s face as she graciously describes the customs of the North to her, clearly pleased at Dany’s insistence that their marriage honor Jon’s traditions.

“I am very happy for you, your grace,” Sansa tells her before she and Missandei make to leave, and the genuine tone of her voice is unquestionable. “I can see that Jon loves you very much, and I am glad you feel the same for him.” Sansa laughs slightly, a grin playing at her lips. “In all our childhood together, I cannot recall Jon ever smiling as much as he does when he is with you.”

Dany can feel the traitorous tears gathering behind her eyes again at the soft look on Sansa’s face. The Lady of Winterfell had been hesitant about her presence in the North at first, suspicious of her and her armies— not that Dany blames her at all— but she has grown to respect Sansa very much in her time here. Her approval is extremely touching, and she is grateful for the kindness in Jon’s sister’s words.

And Jon. Her dear, sweet Jon— even in this place that was his home, he was alone and lost for all of his childhood. They have that in common as well, that lack of true home, true belonging for most of their lives. But now they have found each other, and Dany has found home in him, as he has in her. And the thought of that— that feeling of belonging she has found in this man that she loves, the promise of their future that she now carries— that alone is enough to spur her to defeat the Night King herself if she must. She has fought her entire life to find a home, and now that she finally has one, she will not let anyone take it from her, even if she must kill every single White Walker herself.

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” she says, making to leave, Missandei by her side.

“Please,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “We are to be goodsisters. Call me Sansa.”

Dany’s heart swells, and she finds she is unable to fight the tears threatening to fall now. “Then you must call me Daenerys,” she insists, and Sansa just smiles, nodding slowly.

She and Missandei sift through her various silken dresses from her time in Meereen after dinner with the Northern lords, finding a few contenders for Missandei to alter. “I will check with Lady Sansa about the style before I retire,” Missandei tells her, gathering the silk in her arms. “And I will see about this cloak you will need as well.” Dany thanks her as she hurries out the door, to catch Sansa before she turns in for the night.

There is a soft knock at the door not much later, but she can tell before it even opens that it is not Missandei, it is Jon. She opens the door to him, and he smiles at her slightly before stepping into the room past her, swinging the door closed once he is inside.

Dany wastes no time at all, pushing him up against the dark wood with small, insistent hands, one snaking behind his neck to fist in his hair as she brings her lips to his hungrily. It has been too long since she has had him, and she needs to feel him, _now,_ desire pooling in her belly.

Jon responds eagerly, his hands falling to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh possessively as he pulls her flush against him. Dany sighs as he licks into her mouth, and her other hand not currently occupied with freeing his curls from that damn tie he keeps them bound back with traces down his chest, coming to a stop right above the laces of his breeches.

“Dany,” he gasps, pulling back from her hungry kiss, forehead pressed to hers. “Are you sure you want to? If you’re still not feeling well—”

She silences him with a brief kiss to his lips, before stepping back and out of his arms, tugging at the laces on her dress. He watches her with dark eyes as she steps out of the fabric, his eyes tracing every curve of her as she walks back towards him, completely bare.

She wonders if he can see the swell of her stomach, or how her breasts have grown bigger; she wants to know if he notices the subtle differences in her body that prove what she carries inside her. She barely noticed, so she is not disappointed when he does not seem to pick up on it. She will tell him later anyways.

“I told you, I’m feeling much better,” she assures him, and his eyes are dark with lust, taking in her naked form like a wolf stalking its prey. “And I want you,” she adds. That is all it takes before Jon is stepping towards her again, arms wrapping around her as his hands map her bare flesh, his mouth hungrily upon hers again.

“I am still not convinced you’re entirely real,” he murmurs into her skin as he trails kisses down the column of her throat, across her collarbone, down her chest and over her heart. She just laughs, leaning into his touch, while her hands fumble with the buckles of his leathers.

“And I am still convinced that you wear entirely too much clothing,” she responds breathily, and she can feel him chuckle against her skin. He leaves one last warm kiss in the valley between her breasts, before straightening up and stripping off his gambeson with practiced ease.

“Is this better, your grace?” he teases, kicking off his boots as well, and Dany pouts at him as her hands sink into his curls again.

“It would be better if you had nothing on at all,” she tells him, pretending to sulk, and he chuckles before leaning in to capture her lips in a hungry kiss again.

“I think that can be arranged,” he whispers against her mouth, practically tearing his thin tunic off before he scoops her up in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as she laughs delightedly. He deposits her on her bed, on top of all the furs, and he smiles wolfishly at her before he strips off his breeches too, joining her on the bed and crawling up her body, his bare skin deliciously warm against her own. Dany grins against his lips as her hands trail down the muscled planes of his back, sighing as his hands, and then his mouth, map out her every curve.

“Jon,” she says, breathless, and he looks up from where his lips linger at her breast, eyes glinting with desire.

“Yes, my queen,” he answers, and when his mouth returns to her skin, she is lost in him completely.

Dany cannot bring herself to tell him right afterwards— though she has been waiting all day to broach the subject with him, there is something too serene about the way Jon holds her after they are both spent, and breaking the silence seems too great a crime. Instead, she revels in the fleeting peace, the slow rise and fall of Jon’s chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of his sweat-slicked skin against hers, the steady strokes of his calloused hand as he traces up and down her spine. Dany shifts in his arms, her moonbeam hair spilling across his arm and onto the pillow, and tucks her head below his chin. Jon hums contently, nuzzling her crown with his nose, as her fingers dance along the edge of the scar above his heart.

She does not think that she can articulate the relief she feels that his heart keeps beating below. The thought of him being torn from this world before she ever got the chance to meet him, to love him— it is too much for her to bear.

“Does it make me a terrible person,” Jon finally says, his voice low, “if I say that I wish we could run away?”

Dany turns her head so she can meet his gaze, stare into those lovely eyes she loves so dearly. “I can’t say,” Dany tells him. “Does it make me a terrible ruler that I wish the same?”

Jon shakes his head, his nose brushing against hers again. “Where would you go?” he whispers to her, a smile playing at his lips. “If we had no responsibilities. No duty to our people. Where would you want to go?” She sighs, imaging a world where she could forget her duty, just take Jon and his family and get on Drogon and _go._

“Braavos,” she tells him, smiling. “When I was young, I stayed there for some time.” He meets her eyes, and his are light, shining, full of happiness. “That place holds only happy memories for me.”

“I’ve never been to Braavos,” Jon says, kissing her forehead. “I’d like to see it someday. Arya has lots to tell of it.” He laughs, his eyes sliding closed contently. “Although most of her tales also include mention of faceless assassins.”

Dany laughs, snuggling in closer to him. “Your sister, while lovely, is quite the deadly killer, Jon Snow. I am quite glad that we get along. I fear the man who tries to cross her.”

“Aye, so do I,” Jon agrees, laughing. “Gods know why the Northern lords chose me as their king. It’s my two sisters that should be ruling the damn North.”

Dany knows that his remarks are merely in jest, but still, she cannot help but hear the subtle note of sincere self deprecation to them. “They chose you because you are brave, and true, and just, my King,” she tells him, looking up so that he may see her eyes as she speaks, see the sincerity in them at her words. “They chose you because you do whatever you can to protect them. And because you do not give up, even when most men would.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, just looks at her. The expression on his face reminds her of when he’d sworn fealty to her on that ship from Eastwatch, when she’d wondered if she deserved his support and every doubt in her mind was banished with just the sincerity of his gaze. But this time, it is she who calms his thoughts, who reassures him that he is meant for this. That he deserves this.

He leans down to capture her lips with his, his hand snaking into her hair as he holds her to him like she is the only thing in the world he cares about. She kisses him back determinedly, pouring everything she feels for this wonderful man into it, hoping he can feel what she cannot find the words for.

“I love you, Dany,” he finally whispers to her, their foreheads pressed together, eyes still closed. He is so close to her that she can feel his eyelashes tickle her cheek, his nose brush against hers. Dany brings a hand to his cheek, his beard rough under her palm as she cups his face like he is something precious. He _is_ something precious, she knows. Something more rare and wonderful than she ever let herself hope for.

“And I you,” she tells him, and she can feel him smile without even opening her eyes.

They remain in silence for a moment longer, Jon shifting so he can wrap his arms around her again, pull her into his chest as their legs tangle beneath the furs of her bed. She falls into him willingly, resting her ear against his heart again, listening to its steady _thump thump_ as he traces patterns across her bare back.

“I saw something strange this evening,” he murmurs to her a moment later, lips brushing against the crown of her head. “Before I came here.”

“Oh?” she says, heart humming contently as he tightens his arms around her, pulling her in closer to him, her head fitting right under his chin, cheek to his chest. She does not think she would ever truly be warm in the North if it were not for Jon’s body next to her at night.

“Stranger than walking dead men or giant wolves?” she inquires, and she can feel him chuckle before she can hear it, shifting her eyes up so she can catch the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

“Not quite that strange, my queen,” he assures her, one of his hands raising to thread through her hair, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“Pray tell, Jon Snow,” she teases, grinning at him with just a hint of wickedness. “What strange thing did you spy before coming to me?”

His eyes meet hers, soft and heated in the dim light from the hearth. “I saw Missandei leaving Sansa’s chambers, with her arms full of white silk,” he tells her, and Dany can feel her heart skip. Jon doesn’t seem to understand the _true_ implications of what he saw, though, so she relaxes slightly. “As much as I want to see you in those pretty silk dresses I’ve heard _so_ much about, love,” he says, nose brushing against hers, “I’m scared you might freeze to death first.”

“I appreciate your concern,” she tells him, grinning coyly, but she cannot stop the way her heart flutters at the casual term of endearment that slips past his lips so easily. It makes her decision seem so much easier— how can she deny herself this, for whatever precious time they have left, because of her fears? Dany knows that this thing between them is precious and rare, and any doubts she may have, any hardships they may face— they will be entirely worth it in the end, whenever that may come.

“However,” she continues, raising a brow at him, “I’m afraid the dress Missandei is working on is entirely necessary, cold or no.” Jon’s brow furrows, and she inhales, heart thumping in her chest at the weight her next words carry. “You can’t very well expect me to be married in one of those heavy coats, can you?”

Jon just blinks at her for a moment, as her words seem to take hold in his mind, before comprehension dawns on him. His mouth opens, eyes wide, and she smiles at him softly, her hand drifting up to rest over his heart. She can feel it thumping below her palm, below the ridges of the curved scar that had almost stolen him from her before she had even come to know him. “Although,” she says, voice soft, “I understand that I will need a cloak as well.” She pauses, biting at her lip. Jon _still_ hasn’t said anything, and though he has told her that he loves her, wants to marry her, she cannot help the apprehension that suddenly floods her mind.

“Sansa said she would help me with that,” Dany whispers, just to fill the silence. The airy confidence to her words she’d had before is gone now, her heart fluttering as she waits for Jon to say _anything._

“Sansa said…” Jon finally says, blinking as he looks at her, adorably baffled. _“Dany,”_ he finally breathes, his thumb still stroking up and down against her cheek, his touch warm and familiar, grounding. “Do you mean it? Truly?”

“I do,” she tells him, smiling at him, her breath shaky. “I want to marry you, Jon Snow. More than anything. If you’ll still have me,” she adds, and immediately he nods his head earnestly.

“Of course I will,” he says, as if there was never any doubt. “Daenerys, there is nothing I want more in this _world_ than for you to be mine.”

She smiles at him, can feel the prick of tears in the corner of her eyes, overwhelmed with just how happy she feels in this moment. It’s a rare feeling for her, though it is becoming more and more common the longer she spends with Jon.

“I already am,” she assures him, because it is the truth. She had given him her heart long ago, and it is his and only his for the rest of her days.

“Aye,” he agrees, nodding, his lips brushing against her crown again. “As I am yours.”

With his words, she cannot take the distance between them anymore, and she leans up, capturing his lips with hers. He responds ardently, his talented mouth warm against hers as he kisses her, hands spanning her back, heat sinking into her skin from his fingertips. His kiss is full of love and hope and promise. Promise for the future. _Their_ future, together.

When they pull away, Dany rests her forehead against his, unable to keep the smile from her lips as his hand settles against the curve of her hip, pulling her body closer to his. “This feels like a dream,” he whispers to her, nudging his nose against hers. “One I never want to wake up from.” She raises a hand to his face, brushing his curls back with her fingers.

“This is better than any dream I could have possibly imagined,” Dany tells him, smiling sweetly, and she can feel the tears in her eyes again. _“You,_ Jon Snow, are more than I ever let myself dare to hope for.”

His smile at her words is rare and brilliant, like the sun shining through clouds after an endless storm, or the sparkling waves of an ocean against the sand after miles and miles of desert. Warmth floods in her belly at the beautiful curve of his lips, the soft shine of his eyes— it’s a look that graces his face so seldomly, and the fact that she is the cause of such happiness for him makes her feel almost as though her heart might burst.

By gods, she loves him. She had long ago assumed and accepted that she was never meant to feel love so deep, so selfless and pure— but, she muses, many things she thought she knew about herself have been proven wrong by Jon Snow.

“There’s something else,” she whispers, tracing the lines of his face with her fingertips as his brilliant smile grows smaller, as his brows furrow in confusion.

“What is it?” he asks, and her heart thumps in her chest as her thumb brushes the corner of his lips. It’s a miracle, she knows, but there’s still a part of her that is nervous for how he’ll react to this last revelation from her. For he loves her, and she loves him; if they survive this godsforsaken war, there will be no one else for her for the rest of her life, but the timing of this is not exactly _desirable._ They’re about to march off to battle against the dead, and she’s about to change everything with a few simple words.

She doesn’t speak; one hand still resting against his face, she laces the fingers of her other hand with his, moving it to rest on her stomach. She can feel his breath hitch as his warm, calloused fingers brush her bare skin, confusion still laced through his expression.

“I’m carrying our child,” she tells him, her words barely above a whisper, but he hears her all the same.

Jon doesn’t smile this time— instead, his lips part, mouth falling open in shock, brows raising. She would almost laugh at how completely _baffled_ he looks, if the weight of her words was not so heavy, so life changing.

“You are?” he whispers. “I— are you certain?”

“Yes,” Dany tells him, biting her lip as she nods ever so slightly. She cannot tell what he is thinking, cannot tell whether he is happy or mad or upset, and it is terrifying.  But then the corners of his mouth lilt into a slight smile, eyes wide, unbelieving, but overflowing with love, and all of her doubts disappear like smoke. Dany can feel the tears pricking again as his fingers grasp her side, palm still resting on her stomach, over where their child grows.

“It appears your assessment of the witch was right,” she jests, and Jon gives out a choked laugh, shaking his head. His eyes, she can see, are also filling with unshed tears, but his expression is no longer confused— instead, it is one of pure wonder.

“Our child,” he repeats, blinking at her. _“Dany.”_ He laughs, then— truly laughs, his lips parting into a wide smile, his eyes shining with joy, and one of his hands comes to rest against her cheek, the other still splayed across her belly. Dany is not sure she’s ever heard him laugh like this, so young and carefree and joyous. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever heard.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he whispers to her, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers, and she nods, the tears finally falling. His thumb swipes under her eyes, brushing them away. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t a dream,” he says, and she huffs in laughter, shaking her head.

“If this were a dream then the Army of the Dead wouldn’t be marching towards us, determined to kill everyone in sight,” she tells him. Jon pulls back, eyes opening, and there is a hard determination to his gaze that makes her heart skip a beat.

“Let them come,” he says, voice fierce. “I’m not going to let anything take this away from me.”

He surges forward to kiss her again, capturing her lips desperately, and she cannot help but moan as he pries her lips apart with his tongue, kissing her like it is his sole duty in life. Dany slips her fingers into his silky curls, toes curling at the moan of pleasure she elicits from him when she tugs at his raven locks.

His lips slip from hers, trailing down her neck and to her chest, Dany clutching his head to keep his lips against her skin, his touch like fire as it traces across her body. He pauses, though, when he reaches her midriff, pressing his lips gently to her belly, lingering there where their child grows inside her.

“Gods, I love you,” he whispers against her skin, meeting Dany’s eyes with such surety that she feels her heart might burst. He presses another kiss against her belly, his hand resting over it, covering the slight swell of her stomach. “I love both of you.”

The tears begin to gather in her eyes again, and she tugs at his arm until his face is level with hers again, so she may kiss him. He smiles against her lips, the taste of his skin salty from both of their tears, but she does not care. When they pull away, Jon smiles at her, sweet and sincere, before he tugs her into his arms again, her cheek flush against his chest, strong arms caging her in. His embrace is the farthest thing from a prison, though, and she willingly lets him capture her, as he has already captured her heart completely.

“I hope she looks like you,” Jon whispers into her hair, his hand coming up to cradle her face. Dany twists so that she may see him, may meet those lovely eyes when she speaks.

“You think it’s a girl?” she asks him, quirking an eyebrow. Jon just smiles, nodding slightly.

“I hope so. A little girl with your hair, and your eyes,” he whispers. “Just as beautiful as her mother is.”

“I hope she looks like you,” Dany tells him, laughing when he makes a face. “I would like a babe with your dark curls.”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter what she looks like,” Jon muses, pressing a kiss to her temple. “As long as she knows she’s loved.”

“She will,” Dany promises, meeting his eyes. “She’ll know it to be more true than anything else in the world. We’ll make sure of it.”

“Aye,” Jon whispers, nose nudging against hers. “We will.”

Dany knows it is perhaps foolish to think so far ahead in such desperate times. The Night King is coming for them all, and Cersei still wants to see her burn more than anything. The wars ahead are dangerous and unknown. But for the first time in her _life,_ she has a family, and a home, and somewhere she belongs. It is a feeling almost foreign to her, being so loved and wanted. And even though peace is far off, their respite a distant dream in the future, Dany finds she cannot worry about them tonight. These wars will come, and they will fight, and they will win, because Dany will make sure that the world her child enters is one of peace. One where she knows how much she is loved by her parents.

But tonight is not for thoughts of war. Tonight, she is safe in Jon’s arms, and that is all that matters.


End file.
